Coffeeshop
by fairwinds09
Summary: The girl who works the counter at the local coffee shop watches as Gibbs and Kate begin to develop a romantic relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Coffeeshop

Rating: K (for now, at least)

Spoilers: Nope.

Summary: The girl who works the counter at the local coffee shop watches as Gibbs and Kate develop their relationship. KIBBS, naturally.

A/N: Okay, so this is sort of a new idea for me and I'm trying it out. I hope it will work--let me know what you think (nicely). Basically, I wanted to explore a romance between Gibbs and Kate through somebody else's eyes, without any of the normal office interaction. This first chapter doesn't have any KIBBS, I know, but there'll be some later. Trust me. :)

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I've gotten pretty good at typing people over the past five years. It comes in handy in this business. Sometimes it pays to know if a guy is the type to go for an espresso drip or a hazelnut latte with extra foam. It pays to know if a woman is going to want a mocha grande with skim or the new organic blackberry chai. But in five years of standing behind the counter, filling orders and watching people, I'd never seen anyone quite like him.

To begin with, his order was always the same. Don't get me wrong—that's pretty normal. People generally find something they like and stick with it. But when they come in a coffee shop, they're also generally looking for something besides just coffee…something a little more exciting, exotic, something that they're not going to get out of a regular drip machine. That's what we're here for. (Or so my manager tells me, ten times a day, five days a week.) But this guy—he always got the same thing. Black coffee, straight up, no cream, no sugar, no anything. And he always wanted the strongest stuff we had—basically the next-door neighbor to espresso. Every time I made it up, I wondered what it was doing to his stomach lining and then decided I really didn't want to know.

And then there was the fact that he came in every single morning at exactly the same time. Again, not so strange in the general scheme of things. People usually have a schedule and stick to it, give or take a few minutes. But he came in at exactly 7:00 AM, every day, rain or shine. Even on the weekends. I don't know about other people, but when I'm off on the weekends it takes a jet propeller to get me out of bed. I certainly don't get up and get dressed to get coffee at seven o'clock in the morning. I got the feeling sometimes that he didn't really _want_ to stay at home, in bed or out. But that's just speculation, really.

He was always alone. I never saw him with a friend, a coworker, even a casual acquaintance. When it came to that, I never saw him with a woman either. It wasn't like he was ugly or anything. In fact, I secretly thought he was kind of hot, in an older-guy sort of way. He was pretty tall—a little under six feet, I'd guess. He was probably in his late forties, early fifties, but he had the build of a much younger guy—plenty of muscle under those long-sleeved shirts. His hair was thick and a really gorgeous silver, but whoever cut it must have flunked out of barber school; it was always too short on top and shaven too close on the bottom. But I think my favorite thing about him was those bright blue eyes—they just had this way of looking at you that cut straight through all the bull and saw things the way they really were. I used to think that with eyes like those he must have seen a lot—and some of it things he'd like to forget.

I didn't know who he was or what he did for a living till one morning when he forgot to bring enough cash to pay for the coffee and had to pull out his credit card. Usually he just had a couple of bills stashed in one of his pants pockets. But this morning he must have gotten dressed in a hurry or something, because when he dug around in his pocket all he came up with was a couple of nickels in change. So he had to reach around in his back pocket and get his wallet. That's when I saw the badge hanging on his belt, black leather with a shiny gold insignia on it. Normally I keep my mouth shut when customers don't seem too chatty, but this time I just had to ask.

"What's the badge for?" I said, my hands moving mechanically among the paper cups.

He looked up from searching for his credit card and looked straight at me with those piercing blue eyes. I squelched the urge to gulp and tried to look casually interested.

"NCIS," he said, in a voice that somehow managed to be soft and gravelly all at the same time. I couldn't help it; my eyelashes just sort of automatically fluttered.

"What's that stand for?" I asked as he handed me the card. He looked at me like I'd grown an extra ear or something.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he said slowly. One of my eyebrows shot up.

"So you…go after criminals in the navy?" I asked, trying not to sound as stupid as I felt. He gave me another of those looks that made me want to duck under the counter and stay there for a while.

"We investigate any crime that deals with the Navy," he said in the same flat tone of voice. Then he looked down at the card I still held in one hand. "You gonna use that or do I get free coffee this morning?"

I felt a blush rising up to my hairline and hurried to swipe the card.

"Sorry about that—here's your coffee, sir," I said quickly, trying to make amends before he did something crazy like shooting me. What he did instead nearly sent my system into overdrive for the rest of the day.

He raised one eyebrow at me and gave me a level stare, dead-serious, no smile.

"You don't have to call me 'sir,'" he said simply before he raised the coffee to his lips and took a long swallow. I just stood there, trying very, very hard to keep my jaw from dropping. He nodded once and turned to walk away, and then turned back suddenly.

"Good coffee," he said, and shot me a little smirk that sent my blood pressure through the roof. He walked out the door, climbed into a dark sedan parked on the curb outside, and zoomed off, weaving like a maniac through the maze of D.C. traffic. I was still standing there, trying to make sure I wasn't hallucinating or something, when the whir of credit card reader interrupted my daze. It was spitting out a little ticket, the kind we had to keep in the cash register for the store records. I reached out and tore it off, held it up to the light to read the tiny print.

There it was, right on the top line, unmistakable in black and white. I stood there studying it for a while, wondering about the enigma that walked through the front door every morning at 7:00 AM sharp and ordered his coffee black. I shook my head once to clear it, noticed I had customers waiting and my manager was giving me a look that could kill. But I couldn't help whispering it once before I hurried over to take orders and fit on coffee collars. I knew it was going to stick with me through the rest of the day.

"Jethro Gibbs," I said. "What a name."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Coffeeshop, Ch. 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of them. Except Mike and the coffeeshop girl, of course. :)

**Spoilers:** Not unless you were unaware of Gibbs' coffee addiction.

**A/N:** And now we get to meet Kate...read and enjoy!! (Reviews are nice, too.)

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I didn't meet the woman for another two weeks.

She came rushing through the doors one morning at about 10:00 AM, looking like something with claws and a tail was chasing her. She was panting, out of breath, and the wind had whipped her hair into a curly mess around her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and she had that frantic look on her face that you get when you know you're late and you can't do a thing about it.

Nevertheless, she was absolutely gorgeous. I mean, I think I'm fairly good-looking myself. I know I'm not supermodel material or anything, but I look pretty decent on a daily basis—especially on the rare mornings when I actually get up early enough to fix my hair. But this woman—well, _wow_. She was medium height edging on short, with delicate bones and tough muscles. Her hair hung a little past her shoulders, a dark, rich brown with a silky shine. She had on a red coat with a texture that I wanted to wallow in for a day or two and a cream-colored scarf that looked even softer. And her heels…well, if I ever quit working in a coffeeshop for a living, I'm going to get myself a pair of heels like that. After which I will resign myself to starvation for a couple of years.

She screeched to a sudden stop at the counter and grabbed onto it with both hands like she was holding onto a life preserver or something. With a huge sigh, she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, plopped her purse on the counter, and gave me this sort of sheepish smile that showed off really straight white teeth. Behind me, I practically heard Mike the busboy's eyes pop out of his head.

"What can I get you?" I asked her before Mike could shoulder his way to the counter.

She didn't even flick a glance at the menu board behind my head, just rattled off the order automatically.

"I need two coffees—first one black, no cream, no sugar, strongest brew you've got." I froze for a minute, wondering if I'd heard right. Surely there couldn't be two of the exact same coffee drinkers within the same five-block radius. This was insane.

"Second one, I'd like your best Colombian bean, milk, two sugars, no foam." She stopped for a breath and smiled again, this time with a little relief mixed in. Mike shuffled a little closer to the counter.

I started mixing the coffees and elbowed Mike to help me out. I wasn't sure it was sanitary for him to handle food products with that much drool running down his chin, but we were shorthanded and I didn't intend to do all the work myself.

The woman leaned an elbow on the counter and looked around the coffeeshop casually, big brown eyes wandering over people and tables and chairs. She didn't seem to notice the admiring glances from just about every guy in the room; I guess if you get ogled often enough, you get used to it after a while. I noticed she wasn't wearing any rings. I liked her earrings, though; they were small but elegant, little gold hoops that glittered in the morning sunlight. And when she shifted a little, I noticed a gold crucifix around her neck, almost hidden by her scarf.

I finished up the coffees, handed them to her, and deliberately stepped on Mike's foot in the process. She had pulled out her wallet and was fishing around in it with neatly manicured nails.

"That'll be $8.93," I told her as I opened up the register. She handed me a ten and smiled broadly.

"Keep the change," she said, and then got this oh-I-just-remembered-something look on her face. "By the way, do you have a marker or something?"

A little surprised, I handed her the black marker we used to tick off the preference boxes on the cups. She pulled off the top and scrawled a big "G" on the lid of the straight black brew, finishing the tail with a flourish before she handed the marker back to me. Then she looked at her watch and got that panicked look on her face again.

"Got to run—my boss is waiting for this," she said in a rush, and then she was out the door and charging down the sidewalk before I could say another word. Slightly stunned, I stood there and took stock for a minute before I was jolted out of it by a long, slow sigh from Mike.

"Wow," he said reverently, the dishcloth he'd been wiping the counter with hanging forgotten from one hand. He had this look in his eyes that reminded me simultaneously of somebody looking at a stained-glass window and a 15-year-old boy with his first copy of _Playboy_. It was mildly disturbing, to say the least.

"What?" I snapped, all of a sudden feeling the urge to empty the coffee grounds from the filter I was cleaning over his head. He hardly even noticed me, just kept staring out the window in the direction the woman had gone.

"Man, her boss is one lucky guy," he said, right before he noticed the glare I was leveling at him out of the corner of my eye. He jumped a little and started wiping down the counter at record speed.

"Yeah," I said shortly, "now get to work." I didn't really know why I was so snappish; she seemed like a nice woman, even if she did seem to automatically lower the IQ level of every guy she encountered. Maybe it was just the fact that I was actually thinking about a customer's personal life instead of contemplating that long, soothing foot massage that I was going to give myself as soon as I got home.

But all the same, even as I wiped down tables and filled out orders and dreamed longingly of my foot massage, I kept wondering if she really did work for the guy that came in at 7:00 every morning, and what she was doing picking up his coffee. I had no clue that pretty soon I was going to be wondering about a whole lot more.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 3

Rating: K+ (I guess--there's a little language)

Spoilers: _Chained_

A/N: Finally, a little KIBBS interaction!! It was really hard figuring out exactly how Kate and Gibbs would carry out an argument like this...but I hope the result is well worth it. Let me know what you think!!

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I didn't see anything of her for another couple of weeks. He came in every morning like clockwork, got his usual brew, and left in his usual silence. Everything was pretty uneventful.

Well, except for that one morning when this slightly plump guy in a dark suit and a badge came running in babbling about spilling his boss's coffee and being killed and how he was just a techie at heart and didn't know what he'd been thinking trying to be an NCIS agent in the first place and how DiNozzo (whoever the hell _he_ was) was never going to let him hear the last of this. Mike and I had to sit him down at one of the tables and give him a glass of water to get him to stop hyperventilating and calm down enough to talk intelligibly. Finally we figured out what he was trying to say (and who he worked for), and then everything made a lot more sense. I made up the same coffee I fixed every morning at 7:00 AM while Mike sympathized with the guy about working for a fiend in human form. Considering the situation, I went ahead and made the coffee an extra-large. Knowing what I knew, I figured it couldn't hurt.

But after that things were pretty quiet until one brisk fall day during the slow hours after lunch, before people started coming out for their after-dinner java. I was tidying up the back counter with an eye on the clock and Mike was pretending to sweep the floor and humming along to the radio in the kitchen. It was a nice afternoon, plenty of sunshine, and I was just about to sit down and take a load off my feet when the two of them stormed in.

I recognized them instantly. They were kind of hard to miss—I mean, how many times a day do you see a silver-haired hunk who looks like he's ready to spit nails and a gorgeous brunette with enough fire in her eyes to incinerate the entire block? I didn't know what was going on, but apparently it was pretty hot, and I wasn't about to lose the chance to listen in. So I sidled up to the counter and just stood there, waiting. I didn't say a word. It's my policy to never interrupt when there's a chance of free entertainment.

She started in on him immediately, continuing whatever argument they'd been having before they walked in.

"I do not need backup to interview a suspect, Gibbs!" she spat, rocking back on her heels like a prizefighter getting ready for his first punch. "I am a fully qualified and very competent federal agent. I can take a man down with a single move. I can outshoot Tony, I can outsmart McGee, and I can outrun you. And, I carry a gun. So, I _do not need _McGee and DiNozzo following me around like a couple of armed baboons!! Are we clear on that?"

He let her have her say, the only sign of his rising temper the steady twitch of his jaw and the sparks shooting from those bright blue eyes. But at her last sentence he visibly…well, lost it.

"Are we clear on _what_, Kate? Clear on the fact that you think you don't need protection? Clear on the fact that you're risking your life to try and prove that you're as qualified as the next guy? Or clear on the fact that you're a little confused as to who wears the title 'boss' around here?"

He wasn't yelling…yet. At the moment his voice was actually pretty soft, soft enough that I had to inch closer to make sure I could hear him correctly. But there was an unmistakable tone of menace laced through that low rumble, enough that I was mentally preparing to grab the nearest serving tray and use it as a shield whenever he finally blew. I had to admit, I was pretty impressed with her guts. It took somebody with plenty of chutzpah to stand up to _this_ guy in a temper.

She stepped a little closer to him, eyes narrowing in fury as she punched the words at him like a bare-knuckled fist.

"I am not trying to _prove_ myself!!" she hissed fiercely. "If you'll remember, Gibbs, _I_ was the one who was in the Secret Service before I came here. I played the game, I followed the rules, and by the time I left I was one of the best agents in the field. Trust me—if I can handle guarding Air Force One, I think I can handle a murder suspect."

His eyebrows were practically a straight line over his nose by now and the furrows on his face looked like they'd been etched in stone or something. I stayed frozen behind the counter with one hand still clutching a paper cup and tried really hard to not breathe audibly.

He cocked his head to one side and took the plunge, a sharp gleam in his eyes and a faintly mocking note suddenly appearing in his voice.

"But you didn't always follow the rules, did you, Katie?"

I didn't know what _that_ was supposed to mean, but apparently she did. She sucked in a quick breath and turned a shade paler, her eyes glazing over with absolute feral rage. She had one fist up, ready to plow it into his face, when he grabbed her arm and started tugging her toward the back entrance.

"Not in here," was all he said, which was when I noticed that there was a little knot of people standing against the back wall all agog, their eyes practically popping out of their skulls with curiosity. I made a split-second decision—which is necessary at times in my profession—and turned to Mike, who was standing absolutely speechless in the entrance to the kitchen, his jaw bouncing off his toes.

"You—man the counter," I said briskly, giving him a swift slap on the shoulder to get him moving. "I'm going out back to get more cups."

If he'd been thinking straight he'd have realized that we had enough cups up there to serve a medium-size army, but fortunately for me he was as spell-bound as everybody else in there. I headed toward the back, thinking briefly about calling 911 just in case. I wasn't especially worried about the two of them hurting each other, but the blood on the walls might be a little difficult to clean up all by myself.

I made it out the back door just in time to catch Gibbs grabbing her by the shoulders and getting right in her face. I didn't know exactly what I'd missed, but I guessed it had had something to do with his ancestry, character, and eternal destination, and that none of it had exactly been complimentary. At the moment, however, he was chewing _her_ out in that same soft, lethal bass.

"I don't care what you did before you came to work here, I don't care who you guarded or how professional you were when you did it. All I care about is that you have a job to do, which at the moment involves tracking down and interviewing a bastard who has a habit of taking women and putting bullets through their heads. And if you think I'm going to let you go do that without backup, you had better think again, _Agent Todd_."

She stood rigid in his grip, her whole body shaking with fury.

"What about Tony?" she challenged him. "What about the time _he_ went after a murder suspect with just a GPS chip in one shoe? You going to tell me he didn't need backup for that?"

His jaw tightened at that, his teeth grinding a little.

"That was different, Kate."

She snorted derisively.

"We knew where he was the entire time—"

She interrupted hotly.

"—until he fell into a creek and the chip got wet and you lost him!"

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl and made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She didn't back down, though.

"Admit it, Gibbs. No matter how much you claim that one agent is equal to another, at heart you are nothing but an old-fashioned, traditionalistic chauvinist. You and I both know that I am perfectly capable of hauling in this bastard without any help whatsoever. But you won't let me—not because I can't do it, but because I'm a woman and in your little Neolithic mind, women are supposed to stay home and build the campfire and make stew."

Angling her chin contemptuously, she shrugged his hands off her shoulders with a single angry movement, still furious with him. "God! All I want to know is how the hell you've made it this long in law enforcement without getting sued for gender discrimination."

He just stood there, watching her with an inscrutable stare until she simmered down, planted her hands on her hips, and was finally quiet. Staring down at the ground, he rubbed a hand across his jaw and scuffed the side of his shoe against the concrete. When he looked up, all the anger was gone from his eyes; instead there was something like a tired patience.

"I don't care which way you button your jeans, Kate," he said, sounding weary all of a sudden. "And this has nothing to do with who has more experience in the field or who can outshoot who. That murdering bastard is armed, and he's dangerous, and he'd like nothing better than to use a federal agent for target practice."

He pinned her suddenly with that piercing gaze of his, the one that usually made _me_ inclined to hide behind the nearest large object and stay there.

"And I don't care if you think I'm old-fashioned or chauvinistic or whatever the hell it was you just said." His voice lowered and roughened infinitesimally. "I am not going to lose you, Kate. If you don't like that, too bad. You're just gonna have to deal with it."

He closed his mouth with the snap of a man who's said his piece and isn't going to speak another word, whatever comes. She sighed heavily and looked down at the toes of her shoes, gnawing restlessly on her bottom lip. Finally she looked back up to meet his eyes, still frustrated but no longer furious.

"Fine," she said grumpily, twisting her lips in an annoyed little pout. "Fine, I'll take the backup." His shoulders relaxed a bit and the lines around his mouth softened; he nodded once, as if they'd just clinched a deal.

Then she looked around, taking in her surroundings for the first time.

"I just have one question."

He looked at her and raised a single eyebrow impatiently.

"Why the hell are we standing in the middle of an alley, Gibbs?"

He glanced at her with his "try not to be such an idiot" look. He was really, really good at those.

"Because I didn't want to have this conversation in the bullpen, Kate." He turned and started walking back to the entrance where I was still hovering in eavesdropper-heaven. "And because I figured that after all of this, I'd need coffee."

He stopped and looked straight at me without a hint of levity in his eyes.

"I still do," he said, and with that he walked right past me and made a beeline for the front counter. She rolled her eyes and followed him into the building. I gave myself a much-needed mental head-slap and scurried after them.

I didn't even ask what they wanted to drink. I didn't figure they were exactly in the mood to order. Amazingly enough, my hands didn't shake half as much as they wanted to as I set the steaming cups down in front of them. He picked his up and dug around one-handed for a crumpled bill that he produced from the usual pants pocket. Silently, he handed her the second cup without looking at her; she took it without a word. Eyes half closed in anticipation, he tilted his own cup back, took a long swallow, and gave a gusty sigh in appreciation as the hot liquid took effect. Then he leaned down and touched his cup briefly to hers in a silent toast.

"By the way…" he said coolly, as if the previous fifteen minutes had never happened, "…I can still outrun you, Kate."

And with that he shot her a smug little smirk, turned on his heel, and headed out the door. She took a look at her cup, another at the back of his head, and then shook her own head as if resisting temptation. With an audible huff, she marched out.

I looked around to find Mike still standing there, looking like he'd grown roots in the floorboards. I found a dishtowel and flicked him smartly with the end.

"Ouch!" he protested loudly, and I brandished my homemade weapon at him threateningly.

"Get to work before I make you clean out all the coffee filters," I told him, darkly pleased when he scurried off to grab his broom. I don't know what it was, but watching other people's fights had me on a roll. I chuckled sadistically under my breath. Mike would be lucky to get home by midnight tonight.

I went on about my evening, dealt with the late-night rush as I always did, cleaned up in the warm, humming silence afterward. But as I smiled at customers, juggled orders, polished fixtures, and finally switched out the lights, I kept replaying their argument inside my head.

I remembered all of it—the flashing eyes, the heated voices, the furious words that had scorched the air between the two of them until it all but stank of ozone. But as I thought back, rewound the tape in my mind, I started remembering other things as well. Little things like the concern that darkened his eyes as he stared at her bent head, the tenderness in his voice when he said wouldn't lose her whether she liked his methods or not. I wondered if I was the only one of the three of us who had noticed the fear that had crossed his face at the thought of some murderer putting a bullet through her head. The only one who realized that there was something way deeper than professional concern behind that hard-nosed façade of his.

Because if that were the case, then I was also the only one who had figured out that the enigma named Jethro Gibbs, the mystery man who came into my little domain every morning at 7:00 AM sharp and specialized in terrifying everyone from hardened NCIS agents to humble coffee shop workers, was experiencing something he hadn't felt in a long, long time…for a woman who apparently infuriated the hell out of him.

Pure, stark, irrational fear.

Now that _was _something to wonder about.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 4

Rating: Still K+

Spoilers: "Heartbreak"

A/N: Thanks very much for all the lovely reviews. Here's the next section, with plenty of KIBBS for all the ardent 'shippers out there. Enjoy!!

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I got my explanation three weeks later, to the day.

It was a chilly night, cold enough that you could see your breath in the air if you stepped outside. We'd had more of a run that evening than usual; a drop in the temperature always meant that people scuttled to get coffee. I think it's kind of a preprogrammed human instinct or something, sort of like fight-or-flight…only stronger.

It was getting to be almost closing time, and for once I'd shed the horns and tail and let Mike take off half an hour early. He had a date planned with some girl he'd met on an online role-playing game site, and he wanted to spruce up a little before he picked her up. I thought that, considering the circumstances, he might have been better off working the extra half hour. But then, it was none of my business, and I consider myself a master at the art of never nosing around in other people's business…at least not where they can tell.

So I was alone in the shop, puttering around with a dishrag and humming the theme song from _That 70s Show_ under my breath, when all of a sudden I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned around to check it out, and that's when I saw them—framed there in the big plate-glass window like a fleeting little vignette, spotlighted in the yellow glare of the street lamp.

At first I didn't have the faintest clue what the hell was going on. I noticed that he had an arm around her waist and one hand on her upper arm, half-pulling, half-supporting her. She was leaning on him like she was either drunk or sick, maybe both. She had on that red coat she'd worn when I first saw her, but no scarf. The scarlet material looked like blood against the bone-white pallor of her face.

As they slowly made their way forward, I began to realize that she could barely walk. She was stumbling in his grip like a man after a three-day drunk and I had the feeling that if he let go of her for even a second, she'd end up on the ground without so much as lifting a hand to break her fall. But before I could actually process any of this, they turned suddenly and walked through the door.

I moved out from behind the counter, thinking that maybe I should get her a glass of water, call the doctor, do something useful, when he stopped me with a raised hand.

"Get me two black coffees," he said quietly, in a tone I'd never heard from him before. "I want the strongest thing you've got."

I headed over to the bean grinder, but watched them closely out of the corner of my eye as he led her over to a chair and set her down in it. She was surprisingly docile, almost limp, and I noticed that her eyes were unfocused as she stared out the window into the darkness. Beneath of the whir of the machine, I heard the scrape of chair legs as he settled into the seat opposite her.

They were silent as I dumped in the ground coffee, positioned the cups under the spout, set the timer. Glancing briefly in their direction, I noted that her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the tendons standing out and the knuckles turning white with the pressure. It was odd—the rest of her was slumped loosely in the chair, seemingly relaxed…except for those vise-like hands.

At the beep of the timer, she jumped a little, her eyes darting nervously in my direction. I saw him slightly incline his head towards her, his eyes scanning her face for a clue as to what was going on inside her head. Apparently he didn't get the answer he wanted, because I heard a faint huff of breath as he leaned back in his chair and watched her empty gaze return to the darkened glass.

I moved as quietly as I could as I carried their coffees over to the little table, wincing inwardly at the scuffing of my sensible black shoes on the tiled floor. He glanced up briefly and nodded as I set the cups down and retreated swiftly to the safety of my counterspace. With those piercing eyes trained intently on her expressionless face, he pushed one of the cups over to her side of the table and waited for her to pick it up. When she remained motionless, he leaned in a little closer.

"Kate," he said, his voice a low rasp in the silence of the empty shop. "Kate, drink up. You need it."

She didn't move, and I gradually edged closer to the end of the counter, unable to contain my rising curiosity. Fascinated, I watched as one big hand reached out to cover her tightly clenched fingers.

"Kate," he said again, his tone preternaturally calm. "You haven't had anything to eat in over ten hours. Your system's running on empty. Drink up."

I was confused for a minute. If she hadn't eaten in that long, then there was no reason for him to be pouring coffee down her throat, especially a brew of that strength. The caffeine alone would tie her stomach into enough knots to double her over. Why was he pulling an asinine stunt like this?

Then it hit me. The glassy eyes, the stumbling walk, the complete lack of response. The fact that she hadn't eaten for ten hours and the reason he was trying to jump-start her system with coffee that could easily strip the varnish off wood.

She was in shock.

As soon as I realized what was going on, I headed around the counter with the intent of doing something to help, I wasn't sure what. But before I could open my mouth, she shifted her gaze away from the window and looked at him for the first time.

I nearly did a double take as I caught the look in her eyes. They were expressive anyway, big brown pools that seemed to reflect every mood that flitted across her face. But now they held such depths of pain, such anguish that my own heart twisted in involuntary sympathy. I could hardly believe the intensity of that single look—or of my unthinking reaction.

He must have felt the same way, because his lips twisted briefly before he schooled them back into a firm line. But his eyes never left hers as he pushed the coffee toward her again.

"Drink it, Kate," was all he said, but I caught the undertone of aching sadness beneath the matter-of-fact command. She ignored him, her hands vising tighter around each other on the table in front of her.

He shook his head, jaw clenched, frustrated at her unwillingness to cooperate.

"Kate—dammit, this isn't going to help anything. You have to snap out of it."

She drew in a sharp breath, like someone had dunked her in a tub of cold water, and sat up a little straighter.

"I killed a man today, Gibbs." She said it quietly, flatly, without a trace of the emotion I'd seen in her eyes a moment ago. "I pulled out a gun, I sighted, and then I put a bullet through his head."

She paused for a moment as if mulling the statement over. When she spoke again, it was more of a statement than a question. "And you want me to snap out of it?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, though whether it was in relief or concession of defeat I couldn't tell.

"Kate, it's part of the job. You did what you had to do."

Her eyes half-closed and a bitter little smile curved the corner of her mouth.

"Killed in the line of duty—isn't that what they say?"

He looked down at his hands for a moment, silver hair gleaming in the muted light.

"That's for cops that get killed, Kate. Not suspects."

Something seemed to move beneath the stoic mask of her face, something dark and sinister and menacing.

"Maybe it should have been in the line of duty, then. Maybe I wouldn't be sitting here now wondering what would have happened if I hadn't pulled the trigger, if I hadn't taken that boy's life. Maybe I wouldn't have to go down to autopsy and look at a body on a tray to finally feel something, Gibbs."

I heard him suck in his breath slightly, and the movement of his head reminded me oddly of a man who's just taken a blow squarely on the chin. But when he spoke his voice was the same calm, expressionless monotone.

"No, Kate. The one who wouldn't be sitting here is me. You took that shot to save my neck."

He paused for a moment and then forged ahead, the lines around his mouth suddenly sharper than before.

"And if you can't live with that, I'm sorry."

Her head snapped up and a mocking gleam came into her eyes.

"I thought you never said you were sorry, Gibbs. What rule is that? Number seven?"

He tilted his head to the side and smiled at that, a full-blown smile that would have been absolutely charming if it weren't for the utter emptiness in his eyes.

"Number eleven, Kate. Number seven is when you lie, always be specific." He looked out the window for a moment and then turned back to her. "Are you gonna drink that coffee or not?"

She tossed her hair back and looked straight at him, her eyes hard as nails.

"No, I don't think I will, Agent Gibbs. It's a new rule I just made up. Never drink coffee after you've killed an innocent man. Too hard on the stomach lining."

He almost flinched at that. His teeth caught the edge of his lower lip and bit down hard, but his thumb kept making lazy circles around the rim of his cup as if nothing had happened. Only the slight tightening of his facial muscles gave him away.

She could see it, I knew, but it didn't seem to make a difference to her. Rising, she tugged her coat a little closer around her and shoved her chair under the table with one foot. I didn't know how she was doing it, but she didn't seem the least bit shaky or weak. Remembering the wreck she'd been when she walked in, I thought it must be pure adrenaline that was keeping her on her feet at the moment.

Apparently he did too, because he pushed back his chair and got up quickly, worry in his eyes. She turned on him in a flash, her face blade-sharp.

"I don't need your help, Gibbs. I've had enough of that for one day." She rummaged around in her pockets for a minute and came up with a single folded bill that she threw casually on the table between their untouched cups. "You can keep the change."

And with that she stalked out, shoving the door open and stepping out swiftly into the crisp night air. He didn't look back, just headed after her with long, ground-eating strides. He had almost reached the door when it hit her.

I watched as she literally crumbled, sinking in on herself like whatever had been holding her up had suddenly melted away. Her hands came up to cover her face and she was about to fall to her knees when he caught up with her. He grabbed her shoulders with both hands, pulling her close until her head was resting against his chest and he was bearing most of her weight. Gently, he wrapped both arms around her, held her close as her slender body began to shake with what looked very much like sobs. He didn't try to comfort her, didn't move her or make her sit down, just stood there and held her while she poured out the pain and guilt on the shoulder of his worn-looking brown coat. Trapped behind the long pane of glass, I looked on as he silently pressed his lips into her hair, his weary eyes staring bleakly out into the darkness.

I didn't move as he waited for her to quiet, as he murmured words to her I couldn't hear, his mouth hovering close to her flushed, tearstained cheek. I was motionless, frozen in place as she nodded weakly against his chest and pulled back slightly, letting him take her arm and guide her toward the dark sedan that was parked on the curb nearby. I stayed there, pressed to the window, as he put her in the car, shut her door for her, and then climbed in his side and pulled out into the street at a much more reasonable speed than usual.

It wasn't until his taillights had vanished beyond the edge of the window frame that I let myself move, finally released the taut breath I'd been unconsciously holding ever since I saw the two of them come down the sidewalk and realized who they were. And that was when I grasped the two things that were to bug me for the rest of a long and very sleepless night.

First, that there was a hell of a lot more between Agents Todd and Gibbs than anyone else had suspected, including me.

And second, that I had a hell of a lot more interest in that relationship than I really should.

_(A/N: Just a few little things to clear up before you think about what you just read and come after me with a baseball bat or a nine-iron (a lá ex-wives nos. 2 and 3). First, I realize that in the actual chronology of the episodes "Chained" comes after "Heartbreak," not before. But, for the tempo and dynamics of this story, it made more sense to reverse the order. I also realize that "Heartbreak" did not occur in late fall. Again, it just fits the story better. Secondly, I did a little research online and discovered that "Never say you're sorry" is apparently one of Gibbs' rules that doesn't have a number attached. Since number eleven was unclaimed and I liked the sound of it, I took the liberty of just sticking it in. Finally, I know that Kate hasn't exactly been a merry little ray of sunshine during the last two chapters. Just look at it as a necessary bit of angst before the happy KIBBSness that will come in due course when I publish the following sections. :)_

_And that's more than enough explanation…so, I hope you enjoyed it and do let me know what you think!!)_


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 5

Rating: K+

Spoilers: Not that I can think of.

A/N: Again, many thanks for the reviews. They really do encourage further writing, so please keep them coming. And now for some really happy KIBBSness... :)

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There are days in this business when I am convinced that I finally understand the universe. That guys in pricey loafers get lattes and women in Nikes get low-fat muffins, that the price of gas will inevitably rise and that the ozone layer will always be thinning, that birds sing and the sun shines and that all is right with the world. I like those days.

Then there are the days when nothing at all makes sense, when hippies in jute sandals order triple-strength espressos instead of green tea, when the Chinese delivery service brings egg rolls for dinner instead of kung pao, when the world tilts the opposite way on its axis and everything is turned backwards and upside-down. Which I really, really hate.

And then there are the days when I simply give up trying to figure out anything at all.

That next Saturday was one of those days. Oh, it started out just like normal. Almost _too_ normal, as a matter of fact. In the back of my mind, I was still puzzling over the strange little tête-à-tête I had witnessed last week. I hadn't quite gotten that one worked out in my head yet. But in the meantime things had gone on as usual: people tried to order non-fat lattes with whole milk and extra foam, Mike still drooled over attractive girls and forgot to sweep the floor, and I made coffee and smiled at perfect strangers. Life went on.

There was one difference, though. For a whole week I hadn't seen the silver-haired guy they called Gibbs. It was kind of weird, considering what had happened the last time I'd seen him. I mean, he'd been gone for a few days a couple of times before—on an out-of-town case was my best guess. But this time I couldn't help wondering if his prolonged absence had something to do with a certain brunette he'd driven home on a cold fall night last week.

I kept on wondering until 7:00 that morning, when NCIS Special Agent Jethro Gibbs came strolling in through the door, large as life and looking like he hadn't a worry on his mind. I noticed it the minute he walked in—this sort of carefree air about him, almost like…well, I hardly dared to think it, but it was strongly reminiscent of _happiness_. The strangeness of that didn't really make sense unless you'd seen Gibbs a few times. There were a lot of things I could think of to describe him—intimidating, authoritative, and more than a little scary came immediately to mind—but none of them came even close to _happy_. It just didn't seem to fit.

Yet there he was, standing in line with a self-satisfied little smirk on his face and his hands stuffed in his pockets like a little kid who can barely restrain himself from reaching out for the candy dish. Thinking it over, I hadn't the faintest clue what could possibly have happened to put that smug gleam in his eye. The last time I saw him he was pouring an emotional wreck of a woman into the passenger seat of his car, and while I am willing to admit that I don't know everything about guys, I am pretty sure of at least one thing: no guy likes dealing with a crying woman. It's kind of hard-wired into their Y-chromosomes at birth.

I was still musing over this new enigma when an ear-stabbing ring cut through the air, turning heads all over the shop, and I realized that the sound was coming from his pocket. He pulled his phone out and flipped it open without even looking at the display, and as he raised it to his ear he looked a bit more like his usual cantankerous self.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

Okay, so his answering skills needed a little work. I wondered what happened if someone really important called, like a department head or something. Somehow I figured they'd get the same treatment. He was still talking, though, and I didn't want to miss anything.

"Yes, I'm back, DiNozzo." There was a short pause, during which his eyebrows started angling downwards rapidly. "No, I did not have my phone off. There was no reception up there."

He waited for a minute, then cut off the rapid buzz from the other end.

"DiNozzo, where 'up there' is, is classified as strictly need-to-know. And you are not on that list."

The buzz seemed to go faster than before as he scooted up in line, his eyes fixed on a point in space as he listened.

"Uh-huh. Yeah."

Another pause.

"DiNozzo, do you wanna tell me what the point of this call is? _Before_ I hang up on you?"

Whoever was on the other end asked him something that made him smile all of a sudden.

"Yes. Yes, she's back."

The next statement upped the smile into an all-out grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. I nearly forgot to count back the change of the customer in front of me as I watched; I'd never once seen him grin like that.

"Yes, DiNozzo, I know exactly where she is."

And, unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, he suddenly got this wickedly suggestive gleam in his eye, something between a twinkle and a leer. I held onto the counter for support and tried my best to not hyperventilate.

"Nope."

The buzz was very brief this time.

"Uh-huh. Yep. Need-to-know. You're catching on fast."

Even though the grin was still playing around his mouth, one eyebrow shot up in his signature gesture of impatience.

"Is that all, DiNozzo? Because if it is, I do not want to hear your voice on the other end of this line unless you're calling to tell me that there's been somebody murdered, kidnapped, or blown up. Are we clear?"

I stifled a chuckle and started fixing his usual coffee as he stepped up to the counter. My amusement turned to bewilderment as he held up a hand to stop me before I could ring it up.

"Good. Uh-huh."

Closer to him, I could hear the person on the other end of the line saying something about when he was going to come in to the office. Gibbs huffed out a breath and raised his free hand to rub the back of his neck.

"Monday morning. Don't be late."

The buzz was still protesting loudly when he snapped the phone shut and turned back to me. I'm pretty sure my mouth was already hanging open when he planted a hand on the counter, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and said, "Need a cup of your best Colombian bean, milk, two sugars, no foam. Got that?"

I still squirm a little with embarrassment when I think of how I must have looked right then. I don't make a habit out of remembering people's orders unless they get the same thing every day, but for some reason I had remembered hers. And there was no mistake—it was exactly the same thing that the pretty brunette in the red coat had ordered more than a month ago. So I just stood there, frozen in absolute mind-boggling shock, my eyes bulging and my jaw sagging, looking at him like he'd just announced he was a little green alien on a mission from Mars.

His eyes narrowed slightly as if he were assessing my mental competency, and he leaned in a little closer—I guess to see if there was any sign of even marginal intelligence. Fortunately for both of us I snapped out of it and sprang to life, nearly knocking over a waiting frappucino while I was at it.

"Yes, sir, one Colombian bean, milk, two sugars, no foam. Got it. Do you need anything else, sir?" I babbled rapidly.

His mouth quirked up a little at one corner, but other than that I couldn't see any obvious signs of laughter. I could hardly blame him for it, though. _I_ would have laughed at the look on my face if I'd been able to see it.

"No, that's it," he said, and handed me a twenty out of his front pocket. I noticed that as he moved a faint scent like pine needles and smoke seemed to rise from his jacket. It was a nice smell—kind of woodsy and outdoorsish, making me think of log fires and long tramps in the forest. You didn't get smells like that in the heart of D.C.

I finished up the second coffee and was about to give it to him when all of a sudden I got an idea. I'm not saying it was a good idea. I'm not even sure it was a completely _sane_ idea, but I acted on it all the same. Grabbing my trusty marker, I picked up the Colombian mixed and scrawled a "K" in bold black ink on the lid. Then I set it back down and rang up his total, my hands a little unsteady as I counted out his change.

I raised my head to see him staring at me, those blue eyes drilling twin holes through my skull and his mouth a single flat line. I gulped and clutched the bills in my hand a little tighter in an involuntary reflex. I didn't know how well they trained NCIS special agents in the art of torture, but I was hoping he'd missed that session and that my death would be quick. I'd always hated the thought of a lingering demise.

I was about to fall blubbering to my knees and beg for mercy when I noticed something more shocking than anything else that had happened so far that morning—and my system was reeling enough already. But there it was, faint but unmistakable—a little patch of red on either weathered cheek. That was when I lost it…completely and totally gave up on any of this ever making even a little sense. Because if Special Agent Jethro Gibbs was blushing, the world had indeed turned upside-down, backwards, and, for all I knew, was now spinning in the opposite direction.

Somehow I managed to give him his change and paste on something that vaguely resembled a smile. He hadn't missed a single nuance of my expression, and I could see the laughter dancing deep in his eyes as he picked up his coffee and headed for the door. He didn't say anything, and he didn't smile, for which I was deeply and abjectly grateful. But as he turned and the sun bounced his reflection off the big front window, I caught the tail end of a smirk that kicked up one corner of his mouth and then the other. Then he was gone.

I pulled Mike out of the kitchen and stuck him at the counter without even halfway listening to his whining pleas. Alone for a moment in the peace and quiet of my little haven, I sat down on one of the little barstools we kept in there in lieu of actual chairs and rested my chin in my hands, thinking. I'd been through a lot this morning, and I figured I needed a mental break. But as my mind slowly stopped whirling and began to piece two and two together, I felt the beginnings of dizziness start in again.

Because if he knew exactly where she was, and the thought of it made him smile…if he'd been on vacation for a week, probably somewhere in the mountains if "up there" was any indication…if his clothes smelled like pine needles and log fires…and if he was ordering her particular style of coffee…then I might just have the solution to the little mystery that had been plaguing me for nearly three months.

Suddenly a thought struck me, something so irresistibly funny that I leaned back on my stool and laughed out loud. Whoever the hell DiNozzo was, I couldn't wait until he found out. I wanted to see his face when the truth finally hit him, when the light turned on inside his head. I didn't know him from Adam, but I couldn't imagine that the result would be anything less than absolutely hilarious.

Because if _I_ had nearly had a heart attack when I found out, he would totally flip when he realized that his boss and his co-worker were now lovers.

I really wished I could be there when it happened.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 6

Rating: I suppose this one is still K+...maybe T.

Spoilers: "The Immortals," "My Other Left Foot"

A/N: Well, here's the latest chapter, hot off the presses (which is kind of funny if you think about what Gibbs and Kate were probably doing in that mountain cabin for a week). I know this one's a bit long, but hopefully none of you will mind because now we _finally_ get to see Gibbs and Kate together without either of them yelling or crying. Nice change, right? Anyway, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think. :)

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I have often thought that I would make a very good federal agent. I like watching people, observing their little habits and quirks. I like figuring out what they're doing or where they're going from the little clues I pick up, stringing facts together until a pattern starts to emerge. I like comparing those patterns, noticing trends, piecing together the story of someone's life just by watching them from behind the counter. But most of all, I love that sudden rush, that dizzy high that comes when I get proof that my deductions were right.

Which is why one Saturday morning, almost a month after Agent Gibbs ordered two coffees and blew my mind with a single blush, I had one of the best days on record.

He'd started a new pattern during that month. On weekdays everything was normal. He came in at 7:00 sharp, ordered his habitual black brew, paid in cash, and left. On the weekends, he still showed up at the same time, but now he bought two coffees—one his usual, one a Colombian bean with milk and sugar. I kept putting a "K" on the Colombian, now more for convenience than to test his reaction. Judging from the contented little gleam in his eye and the smirk that seemed to continually play around his mouth, I figured there wasn't any question about _that_ part of it.

But there was always the possibility that I might have something wrong…and that's why I was so delighted with what happened that Saturday. It had been a busy morning, with the bright sunshine luring people out their front doors and the bite of the cold air driving them back inside in search of something hot. Mike and I were hopping to fill orders and keep the tables cleared, and my feet were already starting to scream at 9:30 when the two of them walked in.

I had noticed when he didn't show at 7:00 that morning—which was unusual, to say the least. I chalked it up to a case-related trip and went on about my business. After all, he'd missed his morning coffee date before. Or maybe they were going through a rough patch, or had broken it off. It had to be tough working together and being lovers at the same time, and it wouldn't be at all surprising if they couldn't make a go of it.

As it turned out, about _that_ part I was dead wrong.

They were strolling along the sidewalk, hand in hand, when I spotted them. I realized I'd been doing a lot of standing and staring during the past couple of months, but this time I figured I had a good excuse. I mean, I could understand _her_ holding some guy's hand—she seemed like the type who didn't mind physical signs of affection, and there was no way, with her looks, that no guy had ever tried before. But _him_—well, suffice it to say that I had never in my wildest dreams imagined Special Agent Gibbs holding a woman's hand and walking down the sidewalk with a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. In my universe, it just wasn't possible.

But there he was, holding her much smaller hand in his and laughing at something she'd said with a sort of carefree joy I'd never seen in him before. She had her face tilted up to his, watching his expression, and there was a wealth of trust and understanding and basic enjoyment in that single look. In her deep red coat and with her dark hair blowing in the chilly breeze, she looked warm and bright and vibrant, a perfect foil for his craggy face and mussed silver hair. And as he gazed down at her, he looked more open, more lighthearted than I had dreamed possible, his blue eyes amused and tender all at the same time. It was like a perfect little snapshot of two lovers so wrapped up in each other that they'd forgotten everything else. I felt like I should put it on a postcard or something.

But before I could dissect this little tidbit for all it was worth, the jingle of the opening door shattered my concentration. They came in with a rush of cold air, their cheeks flushed and the ends of their noses turning pink. As they joined the back of the line, she rubbed her hands together and blew on them to ward off the chill; he smiled and it looked like he was asking her something about gloves. Whatever she said must have amused him, because he tilted his head back with a silent huff of laughter. She gave him a teasing frown, her lips pouting just a little, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair off her collar, his thumb grazing the soft line of her jaw as their eyes locked and held.

As they moved forward in line, I noticed that he kept a hand at the small of her back, almost as an involuntary reaction. And although the other guys in the room definitely noticed her, none of them dared anything more than a quick once-over. The message was clear: she was his, and anyone who so much as thought about moving into his territory would be better off dead. Unsurprisingly, no one seemed particularly eager to test that assumption.

They kept talking in soft, intimate tones, their absorption in each other clear even though you could tell they were trying to not be obvious about it. There wasn't any PDA—they weren't even holding hands anymore. But every once in a while he'd reach out to touch her hair or cup her elbow, and she'd rest a hand on his forearm when she was trying to make a point. The depth of their affection, the warmth of it, was clear just from the way they stood together, like two puzzle pieces that you knew would fit perfectly. He was careful, protective, standing over her like a bodyguard; she was fearless, open as she tilted her face up to his. And the whole time their eyes kept up a silent but unbroken conversation that had nothing to do with the words that came out of their mouths.

At the counter, they didn't even bother to order. He just grinned and said, "The usual," at which she chuckled and blushed a little. He paid, and they took their coffees over to a little table by the window, not far from the one where they'd sat the night she had fallen apart and he'd been there to pick up the pieces. I wondered sometimes how much they remembered of that night, how much was lost in a fog of pain and exhaustion and unbearable grief. I wondered if they'd driven through the night to reach that little mountain hideaway of his, if they'd reached their destination just in time to see dawn break…in more ways than one. I wondered when they'd realized that they had automatically turned to each other for the comfort that no one else could give, and when they'd also realized that along with that unthinking trust they had an undeniable spark of pure chemistry. My lips curved up a little as I thought of what that week must have been like—long, lazy kisses in front of a crackling log fire, brisk tramps through the woods while he told her old case stories and she recounted tales from her Secret Service days. Laughter in the kitchen as they cooked together, secret smiles across the table as they ate, a cozy silence as they did the dishes side by side. Tenderness lighting his eyes as he watched her get ready for bed, a flare of anticipation in hers as she switched off the light. And then during the long nights, as the sun rose a little later every morning and the chill in the air was a little more pronounced, a boundless passion for each other that fulfilled every secret need, sated every hidden desire. Yes, it must have been quite a week.

Of course, I could hardly imagine that with their respective personalities everything had gone as smooth as silk. In fact, they seemed to be having some sort of argument right this moment over their coffee, her eyes flashing at him and his brows raised in a stubborn line. Curious, I sidled over to a nearby table—ostensibly to pick up the empty plates and cups—and stayed to shamelessly eavesdrop. They didn't seem to notice.

"Gibbs," she was saying, "there is no way you could have known about my tattoo before…well, you know." She turned a bright crimson under his knowing grin, and hurried on. "I mean, it's not detailed on my personal record! How on earth did you find out?"

He dropped his eyes to his cup in an overly innocent ploy, but not before I saw the wicked glee dancing in their cobalt depths. He was enjoying himself, and most likely at her expense. This was going to be good.

She wasn't about to let it go, though. Her mouth firming into a frustrated pout, she nudged his arm across the table. "I want to know, Gibbs! There is no way you had proof when you told Tony that my tattoo wasn't a rose on my butt. Was it just a lucky guess?"

He let the corner of his mouth slide into his habitual smirk, and reached for his cup.

"Nope," he said, and took a long swallow of the thick brew. "It wasn't a guess."

Her eyes rounded in disbelief. "Then how did you know? You'd never seen…"

She stopped in the middle of her sentence as if a thought had just struck her, then shook her head decisively in dismissal. He watched her closely, waiting for the realization to hit her. She played him at his own game, cocking her head to one side and giving him a challenging look from behind thick lashes. Finally he leaned back in his chair and started drawing invisible circles around the rim of his cup with one finger as he spoke in a low, husky voice.

"You remember that case we had on the Foster? The one where we spent a couple of days on ship?"

She gave him a suspicious look out of the corner of her eye and nodded slowly.

"Yeah. That was the kid that died trying to walk to shore on the bottom of the ocean. The computer geek who was obsessed with an online role-playing game."

He bobbed his head once in acknowledgement, a little gleam appearing in his eyes.

"You remember how we had to share quarters while we were there?"

She frowned a little as if confused.

"Yeah—you took the couch, I curled up on a spare mattress and Tony slept on the floor. And then he complained about it for two weeks."

He grinned.

"When he wasn't talking about Puerto Rico."

She chuckled, then raised one eyebrow.

"What does this have to do with my tattoo, Gibbs?"

The gleam in his eyes brightened a little, and his lips began to curve slightly.

"All in good time, Katie. Do you remember that morning that DiNozzo wouldn't get out of the head and you had to change in the main room?"

She straightened in her chair, a distinctly huffy look coming over her face.

"Yes! I waited for almost fifteen minutes, and he _still_ wouldn't get out. I wanted to hit him for it, but you wouldn't let me."

He chuckled low in his throat and took another long swallow of coffee.

"But I still don't know why…" She stopped for a moment, looking absolutely stunned. "Wait a minute—you were in there when I was changing."

"Yep."

"But I told you to turn around! I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure you weren't peeking. You knew perfectly well you weren't supposed to look!"

He lifted one shoulder in an unapologetic gesture.

"I thought I heard a suspicious noise in the passage. You wouldn't have wanted me to jeopardize our safety just so I wouldn't see you in your underwear, would you?"

Her jaw had dropped and her eyes were huge as she stared at him.

"You _did_ look! On purpose! Gibbs, how dare you!"

She reached across the table and swatted at him, her eyes flashing with a combination of outrage and amusement. He just chuckled again and moved his coffee out of the way of her attack.

"It was an accident, Kate. But it did come in handy…later."

She pursed her lips, studying him sharply.

"You mean when Tony wanted to know where my tattoo was?" she inquired.

His eyebrows quirked up in something remarkably close to a leer.

"Earlier than that," was all he said, leaving it up to her to figure out.

She thought about it for a minute, and then gasped.

"You mean when Tony got me that bikini from Puerto Rico and you wanted to know if I would try it on, you were thinking of _that??_"

He looked away, pretending to be shamefaced, but she wasn't buying any of it.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs, you are such a…a…"

"Bastard?" he supplied helpfully, an unrepentant grin creasing his face as she sputtered helplessly.

"No!" she exclaimed forcibly. "I was thinking of something worse. Much worse."

"Been called all of it already, Katie," he said calmly, draining the last of his coffee and sliding a direct blue gaze over to her. "You gonna get mad about it?" he asked, with a slight undertone to his voice.

She huffed out a frustrated breath and gave him a withering glare. Then, all of a sudden and for no apparent reason, she started to smile--a secretive smile that held all sorts of tantalizing questions just begging to be answered.

"What?" he said, puzzled by her unexpected reaction. She flicked him a smug glance and raised her chin slightly.

"I'm not going to get mad," she said complacently as she picked up her cup. "Because I know exactly how you got home that night we finished with the Thorne case—the night you didn't ride back with us in the truck."

He thought about it for a minute, and then lost all traces of amusement as his eyes popped and his mouth opened.

"What!? How…? Who…?"

She tossed him another of those self-satisfied looks, then got up to throw her cup away. As she passed him, she leaned down and murmured throatily, "I never reveal my sources, Gibbs. But you might want to tell Ducky to watch which stories he tells around your agents."

And then she was off to the trash bin, a sassy sway to her hips as she walked. He sat there for a moment, clearly still flabbergasted, then shook his head with a wry little smile and went over to join her. She said something to him with a saucy flip of her hair, something that made him laugh and slip an arm around her waist. His mouth hovered dangerously close to her ear as he murmured a reply. I watched as her color rose a little and she ran her tongue slowly over her upper lip, her eyes locked on his. Then, laughing, she raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek quickly before taking his arm and drawing him out the door after her, into the bright morning sunlight.

I picked up the tray of empties and finally carried it over to the trash bin, then stood there for a minute staring into the mess of coffee and paper at the bottom. Well, I thought, I guess that answered _that_ question. And then, as I thought about it a little more, I felt a smile—a real smile—start tugging at the corners of my lips. Because no matter how hard it might be to work and live together, no matter how tough it might be to toe the line between personal and professional, I was pretty sure they were going to make it work. Agent Jethro Gibbs and Agent Kate Todd were in love—head over heels, all the way, no-holds-barred in love.

And it looked like they were going to stay that way.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 7

Rating: K+

Spoilers: There's a hint at Twilight, but nothing terribly obvious.

A/N: Well, dear people, we are nearing the beginning of the end. Which, in plain English, means that you have this chapter and one more to go, and then this little fic is going to be finished. I do apologize for the long break between this chapter and the one before--sometimes life gets in the way of writing (sadly). But I'm glad most of you seem to be liking it so far…again, thanks for all the great reviews. For all of those who are worried about Twilight angst popping up all of a sudden—or for those who might actually _want_ it to—all I can say is just keep on reading!! And, as always, I hope you enjoy. :)

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About the time that two certain NCIS agents started coming in together on Saturday mornings, I started hounding Mike to go to weight-lifting sessions at the local gym. Mike is a nice boy, even if he is pretty clueless most of the time—well, _all_ of the time, if you want to be completely honest. But no matter how nice he is, his arms are like toothpicks. And since I was absolutely certain that one of these days those two would send me crashing over in a dead faint out of sheer unimaginable shock, I wanted someone around who was at least capable of catching me before my head made contact with the floor. It really wasn't much to ask, I thought.

As it turned out, I shouldn't have even bothered trying.

They'd been coming in regularly every Saturday morning for about ten and a half months, sometimes laughing and holding hands, sometimes quiet and tired-looking. I couldn't imagine that it was easy, keeping up a relationship with a job like theirs. As far as I understood it, federal agents didn't really get things like breaks or personal time. Their lives revolved around work—at least, that was what I heard from the FBI, CIA, NSA, and NCIS personnel who stood in line on a daily basis. But somehow or another these two particular agents seemed to have found a way to balance their profession and their hearts. Which was downright impressive, to say the least.

The last couple of weeks they'd looked terribly stressed, though. I didn't know why, but I wondered sometimes if it had something to do with the shootout between federal agents and Colombian drug dealers on top of a building that the news had reported a couple of weeks ago. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that there was more to the story than that—but I full well that if any federal agencies were involved, hell would freeze over before the general public ever got the truth. All I knew was that whatever had happened up on that rooftop had scared the hell out of Agents Gibbs and Todd. And that scared the hell out of _me_.

However, life tends to go on whether you're scared stiff or not. Which is why I was nagging Mike to clean the windows and I was scrubbing coffee stains off the stainless steel drip machine when the huge U-Haul pulled up out front.

I was mildly surprised at that. I mean, rationally I realize that U-Haul drivers are people too. They eat, they sleep, they put their pants on one leg at a time, and they need coffee, jut like the rest of the earth's population. (Otherwise, we'd go out of business tomorrow.) But usually U-Haul drivers have a pretty specific time frame to follow, since they're hauling other people's stuff for a living—and to add insult to injury, the city police don't really approve of them parking on the curb. Something about blocking visibility and taking up too much parking space.

But all was suddenly made clear when a little silver economy car zipped around the bulk of the U-Haul, cutting off three drivers and eliciting a chorus of honks in the process, and screeched to a stop against the curb. It wasn't his car, but I only knew one person who drove like that. Looked like I'd better get two coffees ready…one black, one mixed Colombian.

She was the one who hopped out, however, her red coat flapping in the cold wind and her dark hair flying around her face. I was already drooling over her black leather gloves when she blew in the door, puffing a little from the frigidity of the air. I didn't know where she bought her clothes—or how she managed to afford them on a federal agent's salary—but I really wanted to tag along when she went shopping. The woman definitely had an eye for style.

Brushing errant strands of hair out of her eyes, she set her purse on the counter and smiled at me, her brown eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.

"Do I need to order, or would that be incredibly redundant?" she asked teasingly.

I smiled back—it was kind of hard not to, she was so full of perky energy—and held up Agent Gibbs' signature black brew.

"Got it," I said smugly. "How could I forget?"

She grinned wryly, one eyebrow quirking up a little.

"Yeah, I guess we're pretty predictable," she said. Then she looked around and sighed.

"God, I'm going to miss this place." She watched as I started the grind for her Colombian, and shook her head a little. "You don't happen to have another branch of this shop in Norfolk, do you?"

I had to admit, I was a little bewildered. Why she cared what kind of coffee shops were in Norfolk was beyond me. But I might as well answer her anyway.

"Sorry, this is the only one we've got. It's kind of a small-scale operation," I said apologetically.

Her lips puckered in a frustrated pout.

"Damn it!" she huffed. "I swear, that man has all the luck. _He_ gets to stay in D.C. and drink decent coffee while _I_ have to drive all the way out to Norfolk and make do with the local Starbucks. He's going to pay for this, I swear."

I couldn't help it; the busybody in me just rose up and took over.

"You're moving to Norfolk?" I asked casually as I mixed her coffee, hoping she wouldn't get mad at this unwarranted intrusion into her private affairs. She looked up, slightly surprised.

"Yeah," she said, a glimmer of pride peeking through her next words. "I'll be heading my own team there—which isn't half-bad for a junior agent coming up through the ranks." She looked wistful for a moment. "I'll miss Headquarters, though. There's something about being in the middle of all the action that's just addictive, I guess."

I did an inward double-take as she pulled off her gloves and dug around in her purse for her wallet. What was going on here? Had they broken things off, had he fired her, had they decided that they just couldn't handle the tension of working together any more? I was biting my tongue in half trying not to ask when she held out her debit card.

"I think I gave my last ten to the U-Haul driver for putting up with Gibbs' driving," she said dryly. "I'm gonna be broke by the time we hit the interstate."

I tried hard not to chuckle, secretly a little relived that they seemed to still be together. That still didn't explain the sudden transfer, though. I was still puzzling over it as I handed her the two coffees and watched her pull those gorgeous gloves back on.

"Thanks," she said, and then looked around one more time with a little smile. "Hey, I guess there's always Saturdays. I'll get myself a grande to make up for the sludge I'll be drinking the rest of the week."

I nodded, pleased that I'd still be seeing the two of them sometimes. I'd kind of gotten used to watching them sit at the little table by the window, like a small reminder that sometimes things actually went right in this world. I jolted out of my little reverie as she picked up the coffee and turned around to walk out.

"Bye!" she said over her shoulder as she left, smiling a little at something behind me. That was when I turned around to notice Mike propped up against the window, cleaning rag dangling from one hand, with an extremely dopey look on his face and his mouth hanging open. Out of respect for innocent passers-by, I walked over and firmly closed it.

"Get moving," I said, planting both hands on my hips in my best no-nonsense stance. He jerked upright and started rubbing the glass furiously, but I noticed his eyes were zeroed in on the dark-haired agent who had stopped next to the silver car.

I had to admit that I was watching too, since now the silver-haired driver had gotten out too and taken the coffee out of her hands, placing it on the car's roof despite the brisk wind that was currently sweeping down the street. Smiling mischievously, she put both gloved hands on his cheeks, laughing as he winced at the contact with the cold leather. He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her closer for a quick kiss that was startlingly intense for all its brevity. I couldn't blame Mike for his pathetic little sigh as he leaned his forehead against the windowpane; I wished I had someone to hold me like that too.

They stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other as her gloved thumb caressed his cheek and his hand slid farther up her slim back. Even with boots on, she was barely tall enough to reach him without standing on tiptoe. He didn't seem to mind, though, his head tilted over hers in a gesture of unconscious tenderness. After a moment they broke apart, exchanging a brief glance before he turned to hand her one of the cups resting precariously on the car's roof. She rounded the front of the car and slipped into the passenger's side as he started the engine and slammed his door shut. And I couldn't help but smile when, before he floored the accelerator and zoomed off as usual, he leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. There might be a lot of things to worry about in this world, but the two of them breaking it off didn't seem to be anywhere on the list.

I drifted around in a dreamy sort of daze for about fifteen minutes afterward, thinking of true love and happily ever after in a disgustingly sentimental fashion, before it hit me—literally hit me, right between the eyes. Which is why I still blame Mike for what happened next.

Because all of sudden the nagging feeling that had been bugging me for nearly twenty minutes made absolute sense—the feeling that I'd missed something important, the feeling that I'd had the key to the little mystery of the U-Haul and her sudden transfer right under my nose the whole time. It had to do with her gloves somehow—something about when she'd pulled off that beautiful leather to fish around for her wallet. I'd been too busy lusting after buttery-smooth calfskin to exercise my normally sharp talents of observation, and I knew there was something I'd missed.

Standing stock-still at the counter, I replayed the little scene in my head, thinking through every move she'd made in an effort to recall whatever it was that I'd overlooked. We'd been talking about Agent Gibbs' driving skills—or lack thereof—she'd taken off her gloves to get out her debit card, and then handed me the little slip of plastic. That was it—it was something about her hands when she'd offered me the card, something new and different. Something that sparkled…

I said that the realization literally hit me between the eyes, and I wasn't even kidding. Because when I realized what she'd been wearing on the fourth finger of her left hand, I gasped out loud, whirled around, and promptly hit my forehead against one of the cabinet doors on the back wall that I'd left open earlier. Before I could do more than make a small groan of protest, the world exploded in a shower of little sparks and then went abruptly black as I felt my feet slide out from under me and a brilliant bloom of pain begin to spread throughout my brain.

When I woke up, I had two lumps on my head—one on the front from where I'd hit myself with the cabinet door and one of the back from where I'd fallen and banged my head against the floor. From the way it felt, I thought the floor should have a dent too, but apparently even _I_ wasn't that hard-headed. It didn't help that Mike kept hovering around, apologizing profusely for not catching me and simultaneously offering me a pillow, a chair, and a glass of water—which when combined sounded less than comfortable. I finally shooed him away and stumbled to the bathroom to get myself a cold compress for my injuries.

Standing there in the harsh light of the fluorescent bulb and staring at the bright red mark scored across my forehead, I shook my head a little and winced at the sudden pain. Well, it looked like I'd gotten all the answers I wanted, albeit at the rather high price of a cracked cranium. Agents Gibbs and Todd weren't breaking it off, moving apart, or anything else remotely related to ending their relationship. And I could hardly blame their director for transferring her to another office. I wouldn't keep two of my best agents on the same team if they were engaged, either.

But despite my usual thrill of being proved right, my happiness for two people who had finally figured out how to make it work, and my shameless indulgence of a hidden soft spot for soppy romance, I still had one bone to pick with life. Things had turned out perfectly—except for just one thing.

Dammit, I'd _told_ Mike to go to a gym.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Coffeeshop, Ch. 8

Rating: K

Spoilers: Nope.

A/N: Well, here it is. It's been a rather long but very fun journey--and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Again, I can't give enough thanks to all of you who read and reviewed this fic. I appreciated every bit of encouragement. And so far, at the end of my second foray into the realm of fanfiction, all I can say is that I'm having a ton of fun and can't wait to start another one!! So please let me know what you think of this last little tidbit--and, as always, enjoy. :)

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It's been two years now, and they still come in for coffee every Saturday morning. I still make him a black brew that could probably take the paint off metal and still mix her a rich Colombian with milk and a little sugar.

Mike, who is still stick-thin and unlucky with girls, gazes longingly in her direction when he thinks Agent Gibbs isn't looking and pretends to be very, very busy when he is. They still sit at the little table by the window, and they still hold hands when they walk down the sidewalk before coming in the door.

She looks more confident, more self-assured, with some of that perky energy replaced by a determined focus that does nothing to dim the sparkle of her personality. In contrast, he looks a little softer around the edges, with some of the lines worn by time and disappointment smoothed out of his face. But his eyes are still blue and blade-sharp, and hers are still huge and expressive and chocolate brown. And they still laugh together like they have a delightful secret that no one else can share.

I've almost gotten used to the glitter of the diamond on her finger, right next to the simple gold band that she rubs absently every now and again as if to remind herself that it's still there. It's been easier to get used to that than to the sight of a matching band on his roughened hand. I guess those two gold circles are proof that anything's possible—and by that, I mean _anything_.

I can see them in another couple of years, coming in with a stroller and diaper bags. I can envision a little girl with her wide smile and his blue eyes, or a little boy with her dark hair and his sneaky charm. I think they'll make good parents—between her unflagging love of life and his subtle sense of humor. And in my mind's eye I look down the road and see two tables pushed together against the window with a cluttered mess of crayons and plastic dinosaurs and coffee cups strewn over them. It'll be the devil to clean up, but somehow I don't think I'll mind too much.

I'm happy for them. Really, I am. Sometimes I wish that _I_ had been the one to fall in love with a cute co-worker and get married, but then I take a look at Mike and fall back to earth in a hurry. (_That_ is never going to happen. Not in this lifetime, anyway.) But Kate and Gibbs fit together in a way that few couples ever do, and I'm glad that despite the odds they found each other and stuck it out. It wasn't necessarily easy, but somehow they managed anyway.

There's just one promise I've made to myself, and I'm determined to carry it out. So help me, if they bring their first child in here—whichever gender it may be—and he feeds the poor kid so much as a drop of that thinly disguised poison he calls coffee, I'm going to quit. Hang up my apron, throw out my time card, and hand the keys to Mike so he can lock up that night. Right after I call Child Protective Services.

Then, of course, I'll have to go out and get a new job. I could always waitress, or tend bar, or do a million other odd jobs that no one else ever notices and that no one in their right mind would ever want to do. It won't be easy at first--but after nearly eight years in a coffee shop, I imagine that any other profession will ultimately seem like a walk in the park. At least my feet will get a few days of rest while I'm online job-hunting.

Or maybe—just maybe—I'll walk down the street to the red brick building with the pretty lawn and the sign that says "Naval Criminal Investigative Service Headquarters" and hand in my application.

I've always wanted to be a federal agent. And NCIS sounds like it might be sort of fun.


End file.
